Ghost
by Slightly Obsessive
Summary: Ghost has been hunting for two hundred years, and this poltergeist is about to give up and call it quits. Only, death remains elusive, as usual. The hunt for a cure to the spirit's curse is on, with the help of some superstitious strangers.EomerOC
1. Prologue

Hey everyone! This has been floating around in my head for a bit so I thought I'd take a whack at it. I tried to sustain the angst and bitterness, but it turned out the character's personality was stronger than my dying will to be angsty. My beta, who has very nice teeth should be happy though, she is mentioned a lot. (Which reminds me: mind beta-ing this? I wanted to get it up on FF so I didn' t email it...Love you!) Thankyou to Yami Moh, for her MSN beta-ing and casual laughter. Love you! ;)

**Please read and review!**

**Ghost**

**Prologue: Reflection**

The fire was dying down. The embers were cooling, the bright orange fading. I didn't care. I didn't need the light to reflect on death.

What is death? The parting of the soul from a mortal body to some higher, holy place? The toll of illness and injury? Of fatal wounds that rend the body until it can no longer stand under its own strength? The slow decay of time? The rotting of a corpse? The cessation of life? The end?

I do not know this death. I have watched people come and go, flitting in and out of this world like dust on the breeze, glowing in the sun for an instant and fading into the shadows, kicked into dark corners.

Death is an entity. A malicious being whose sole purpose is to cause people harm by dragging them kicking and screaming from the living world, and by torturing those left in their wake. Crushing the families and friends of the deceased who mourn their parting like they had ripped the life from them themselves.

Elves generally don't have to worry about this kind of thing. They don't die. If you don't get in their way, they live forever, immortal beings. Whoopee for them. Dwarves aren't much different. The miners live for an age, under the ground, hoarding gold and getting rip-roaring drunk. Halflings are similar. They don't look a day older than twelve, and they act like it too, getting up to their eyeballs in shit, or hiding in their burrows their entire lives.

Goody for them. Hooray for all those immortal, drunk, twelve-year-old sons-of-bitches. Whoot.

For humans though, death is an everyday occurrence. Babies die, men die in battle, women die in birth, kids die, and old people die. Eventually everyone dies. Some humans spend their entire lives fearing their approaching and certain death. Others get proactive and try to kill death, or postpone it with potions and the worship of evil, mean people with staffs or rings. Most of those proactive, generally psychopathic souls die. Or they end up bent, crooked, wasted and wishing they were dead.

Like me.

I may not be bent, or crooked or wasted, in fact I think I look pretty good considering how long I've been around, but I really wish I was dead. I wake up in the mornings and check my pulse just to be sure. Hey, I might have died in my sleep. You never know. And orcs skip in circles, cuddling kittens and bunnies. And Saruman and Sauron hold hands and chant "Coombaya, my Lord!"

I can hope can't I? Just a little, a smidgeon?

My best hope is to find someone who can rid me of the forsaken curse! I've been searching for more than two hundred years, and I've come up with zip. Nothing. A few con men tried, and subsequently their necks were enjoying a pleasant breeze. I've become bit of legend that way, by killing people. And that's okay. People are more inclined to answer my questions when they learn who I am. Or they run. That's okay too, because normally I'm not in the mood for conversation. I'm in the mood for bitter, angsty thoughts about death, and compulsive pulse checking.

Got a problem with that? Bite me.


	2. If You Go Down to the Woods Today

I will probably make a lot of mistakes about the wonderful world Tolkien created and have people rolling and writhing in agony; twitching and squirming in ire. **I apologize in advance for this.** I rely on my **beautiful beta** Taluliaka to pick such errors, so clearly it's not all my fault. She has considerably more knowledge of **The Lord of the Rings** than I do. I've seen the movies and I tried to read the first book. Thankyou to Yami Moh, for her beta-ing, once again and to Yami Wah for her comments too. Thankyou for your review Taluliaka - I have revised the end to address the issues you pointed out. Much love.

Disclaimer: If I owned LOTR, I'd be fabulously wealthy. I am not fabulously wealthy, which explains the lack of ownership…or is it the other way round?

**Ghost**

**Chapter 1 – If You Go Down to the Woods Today**

In the forest of Lothlorien there was an air of innocent happiness and ease. The tall trees were happy and healthy, the poison of evil was beginning to fade from their veins. A brisk wind tickled their leaves and the faces of a group of elves returning from postings on the border.

They were hardened warriors, strong, lithe and experienced. Yet, to the often misguided human eye they appeared little more than twenty years old. They smiled and laughed, and talked gaily amongst themselves with voices sweeter than the most charming of songbirds. They were ethereal and unnatural in their terrific grace and splendour; beautiful beings, eerily perfect.

The troop had almost reached their home, the city in the trees. The elves were less than a day from the sights and sounds of the city, and the cheerful voices and serene faces of their brethren. Their horses could sense it too and pulled at the reins, urging their companions to move faster than the current pace. The horses were just as stunning as the elves who rode astride them. They were strong, and slight and swift; bred to be the fastest and most beautiful of all horses. They were intelligent, with keen ears that flicked to and fro. They were the friends of their elf companions for the duration of their lives. Each pair had a special relationship, treasured so highly by the elves who knew that their four-legged comrades would fall many years before they did.

The hoof-beats of elven horses are light and quick. They learn at an early age how to walk over the forest floor, strewn with brittle leaves and small sapling plants, with barely a sound. At about sunset the elves heard with their Herculean senses a different kind of horse. It was not elven. Its footfalls were heavy and fast; it was galloping, loping through the forest undergrowth with none of the grace of an elf and his horse, that sense of two beings riding as one. The rider, while not a novice, clattered loudly on the horse. The sound of its weapons and belongings jangling, its cloak flapping, was loud in the immortals' ears. Immediately, their chatter ceased; they became wary and sat as taught as bow strings, straining for the stranger horse's location.

It crashed through the wood, crushing leaves and plants with huge, long strides. The sound came from a path a distance to their right, which would soon intersect with their own. The horse was ahead of them by at least 50 feet.

At the March Warden's quick signal two of the fastest riders galloped forward to try and overtake the stranger, cut them off. It was the simplest strategy and one often used by the elves. Surround the enemy, give them no options and they will submit to the elves' obvious superiority. It was fast, but from the sounds of soft curses they heard in their ears, the horse and rider were finding the many trees hard to gallop around swiftly.

The rest moved their pace up but aimed to stay just behind their foe. They would box them in and force them to surrender to elven authority.

The hoof beats were louder now, perceptible even to a human's ears. The very earth seemed to vibrate and tense for the coming skirmish. Time slowed for them, every step of the horse beat down upon them in an almost tangible weight. The birds in the trees continued to chirp happily above them, unaware or unconcerned.

Several of the elves, the best of the company with bows, guided their horses with their knees and fitted an arrow to an already strung bow. They clenched their teeth and clutched their arrows tightly with their fingertips, and prepared for the imminent battle. The rest clutched deadly swords in one hand, the other light on the reins and their trust in the horse.

Up ahead – the paths merged. Close now, so close. The two elves that had gone ahead of the group closed in on the intersection, almost there. Timing was what mattered now.

Through the trees, in the fading light, a dark figure of a huge horse and rider became visible. The elves snatched at the image with their eyes through the trees and fading light, trying to figure out just what manner of stupid beast had attempted to cross their borders.

The first elves passed the intersection and continued on, looking back. Waiting. With a crash the figure turned onto the new path and headed straight in the direction of Lorien. The horses hooves skidded, churning the soft earth as it struggled to complete the tight turn.

The elves of the squadron were horrified at the new angle in which they viewed their foe. They saw a rider in a billowing black cloak, worn and patched, clinging to an unconscious elf far younger than themselves. The horse was large and strong, covered in sweaty foam and was being ridden hard, cruelly. Spurs on the feet of the stranger shone in the dappled light.

"Nazgul!" hissed an elf, for it could only be such a fiend who would dress in such a manner and attack an elven stronghold.

It had been reported that with the death of Sauron, his terrible servents, the fiendish Nazgul, had met their end also. Yet how could this be so? They saw with their own eyes their enemy, the damned servant of Sauron. They could sense something was not right with the figure. It must be evil. They must kill it, destroy it.

The two leading horses were far swifter than the lumbering black stallion. They galloped alongside it, never wondering why it didn't attack them, and drew their own swords, preparing to engage it in battle. The Nazgul turned its empty hood to look at each of them, and behind it at the following elves, with their weapons drawn and their faces severe. The elves pushed their horses in front of the fiend, blocking off the path. They stopped and with harsh looks refused to let it pass.

The Nazgul tugged on the reins and commanded the horse to stop. It screamed and reared, surrounded by elves, while the rider looked madly for an escape. The March Warden saw it nervously – could a Nazgul feel nervous? – clutch the lifeless hostage in its arms closer to its body. The elf was pale and sickly, covered in a sheen of sweat and shivering.

The March Warden, as he closed in on the beast, wondered just how it had survived the destruction of its master. Was its fate not tied to his? And what evil had been conducted on the poor elf, held prisoner in its dark embrace?

The dark horse lowered its forelegs to the ground. Its eyes rolled in its sockets, white and exhausted. The elven horses snorted and neighed at it, demanding dominance.

As one unit, formidable and terrifying the elves unleashed as soon as they were in striking range of the undead monster, skilfully aiming around its hostage. They did not consider the reason the leading elves, which were so close to it, were unharmed.

The Nazgul did not attack.

It fended off the arrows with lightning fast strikes of gloved hands. To Cirdan, one of the scouts blocking the path, it seemed the Nazgul was trying to not only protect itself, but the elf with it, from the onslaught. He put the thought out of his mind and signalled his partner, Erestor, to attack. They lunged toward it, yelling battle cries.

Finally, overcome with desperate impatience, the Nazgul shouted above the shouts of the elves, "Stop! I am not your enemy!"

All the elves had heard tales of the Nazgul; of how their voices were harsh whines that struck fear and terror in all mortals. The voice they heard had no such properties. It was muffled, coarse and the figure spoke the common tongue Westron. The voice was humanlike.

The assault of arrows slowed as the elves looked to the March Warden for guidance, confused. Their leader made a fateful decision – he commanded his soldiers to hold their fire.

"I have come to deliver one of _your_ brethren into the hands of healers! You can see he is unwell – he will die soon! I must take him to Lorien with all speed." It paused and shouted louder, its voice cruel in the silence of the forest, "Let me pass!"

The elves remained silent, training their weapons on the enemy. One arrow flew with deadly aim towards the stranger.

The stranger knocked it away, furious at the indecision and stupidity of the immortals and pulled out its sword. It raised it in the air.

"Let me pass elf!" It commanded staring into they eyes of the March Warden.

Well, if he could have seen its eyes it would have been staring, but since they were obscured by the hood, the March Warden could only assume he was being looked at.

He made the signal for the elves to stand down. They did so reluctantly and warily. They did not trust the stranger to their land to not turn violent and attack them. The figure, despite its words, was their enemy until it was proved at the highest level they were allies with the elves. And the only allies of an elf, were elves.

The March Warden addressed the outsider in its tongue, "You claim to have that elf's welfare at heart, when you-"

"He will die if he is not healed before dawn." The cloaked foreigner interrupted him, "I feel the life in him slipping away with every word we waste here! Will you let his blood, his death, be on your hands?"

It breathed harshly from under the hood – it breathed? – having exerted itself with shouting at them and riding for hours at speeds hitherto regarded as ridiculously foolish. The March Warden frowned, a thousand thoughts flitting through his mind. If it was not to be killed, the stranger should be at least blindfolded! But there was no time. He was immortal, and now every minute he waited the closer the young elf hostage was to death. The sickly pallor of death hung around him like a shroud. He was the leader. He had to make the tough decision and he had to make it now.

It seemed there was only one solution then; for better or for worse, he was unsure. There was no time to argue with the stranger. He did not have the gift of foresight and could not tell where his judgement would take his people. He would take responsibilty for his actions. He forced himself to open his mouth and command his soldiers.

"Ride!"

The party galloped as fast as possible towards Lorien with a new purpose and a mistrusted stranger in their midst. The elves watched it constantly, trusting their horses to lead them safely through the forest. Of the outsider, they could not give it the same courtesy.

**Slightly Obsessive**

In the next chapter: Earlier that day…


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